HANA'S POV
By Friday afternoon, exam week finally ends, and the entire school seems to exhale at once. The tension that has been hanging over everyone for the past seven days disappears almost immediately after the final bell, replaced by the strange, almost disorienting realization that nobody has to study tonight. Students spill through the gates with bags hanging from one shoulder, laughing louder than they have all week, already making plans for the weekend as though they haven't spent the last five days convincing themselves they were going to die over a chemistry exam.
Minji practically drags me out of the building because, according to her, I have developed "the personality of an exhausted librarian," which I refuse to acknowledge because I am too tired to argue.
I should be relieved. I should feel accomplished. I should feel lighter now that the exams are over and I have nothing left to memorize, but instead there is a strange heaviness sitting somewhere behind my ribs that has nothing to do with school. I keep thinking about the night before, about Niki's hand in mine, about the way he looked at me beneath the tree and told me he wanted to know me rather than the version of me other people had invented. I keep remembering how close we had been, close enough that for one reckless second I thought he might kiss me, and the memory has become particularly inconvenient because every time it returns, my stomach does something embarrassingly stupid.
I haven't seen him since that night. We didn't talk after he walked me back, and when I woke up the next morning, there was no message from him. Somehow, I told myself that was for the best. Somehow, that didn't stop me from checking my phone twice before breakfast.
The weekend begins with an invitation I have absolutely no interest in accepting. My grandfather has asked everyone to come to the estate for dinner, which in my family is less of an invitation and more of a command dressed in polite language. My mother tells me to be ready by six, and I spend the afternoon trying to convince myself that being around my family for a few hours will be easier now that exams are over. It isn't.
The moment we arrive, I feel that familiar tightening in my chest, the one that always happens whenever I step through the enormous iron gates and see the house waiting at the end of the long driveway. Everything looks exactly as it always does: immaculate gardens, perfectly trimmed hedges, windows reflecting the afternoon sun, flowers arranged with such precision that they almost look artificial.
My grandfather's house has never felt like a home to me. It feels like a museum where everyone knows the rules except me. I don't want to spend the afternoon inside listening to conversations about university applications and business dinners and which cousin is doing what with their life, so the moment I have the opportunity, I slip outside with a watering can and head toward the small garden at the far end of the property.
The garden is the one place here that feels like mine. It isn't particularly impressive, especially compared to the perfectly landscaped grounds surrounding the house, but that's precisely why I like it. There are no gardeners constantly rearranging things according to someone else's vision. There are no clipped roses or imported flowers whose names I have never bothered learning. There are simply the plants I've chosen, the little patches of herbs and flowers I've planted over the past few months, some thriving and some stubbornly refusing to cooperate.
I kneel beside the small flower bed and begin watering the soil carefully, watching the dark earth absorb the water. One of the flowers has finally begun to bloom after weeks of looking like it might die, and I find myself smiling at the sight of it. Maybe that's why I don't hear anyone approaching until a shadow falls across the flowers. I look up and see Aera standing there in a pale dress that looks expensive enough to cost more than everything currently growing in my garden combined.
